Bury Your Dead (12 page)

The young assistant, so shocked something worthwhile had actually been said, almost forgot to write this down. But then his pen whirled into action.

“Go on,” said Langlois.

“He asked to see the Board of Directors.”

“When was this?”

“Around eleven thirty. We’d locked the door as we always do during a board meeting.”

“He just showed up?”

“That’s right.”

“How’d he even know you were meeting?”

“We put the announcement in the paper.”

“
Le Soleil
?”

“The Québec
Chronicle-Telegraph
.”

“The what?”

“The
Chronicle-Telegraph
.” Elizabeth spelled it for the assistant. “It’s the oldest newspaper in North America,” she said by rote.

“Go on. You say he showed up. What happened?” asked the Inspector.

“He rang the bell and Winnie answered it, then came up here with his request. She left him downstairs, outside.”

“And what did you say?”

“We took a vote and decided not to see him. It was unanimous.”

“Why not?”

Elizabeth thought about this. “We don’t react well to anything different, I’m afraid. Myself included. We’ve created a quiet, uneventful, but very happy life. One based on tradition. We know that every Tuesday there’ll be a bridge club, they’ll serve ginger snaps and orange pekoe tea. We know the cleaner comes on Thursdays, and we know where the paper towels are kept. In the same place my grandmother kept them, when she was secretary to the Lit and His. It’s not an exciting life but it’s deeply meaningful to us.”

She stopped then appealed to Chief Inspector Gamache.

“Augustin Renaud’s visit upset all that,” he said.

She nodded.

“How’d he react when told you wouldn’t see him?” Gamache asked.

“I went down to tell him. He wasn’t pleased but he accepted it, said he’d be back. I didn’t think he meant quite so soon.”

She remembered standing at the thick wooden door, opened a sliver as though she was cloistered and Renaud a sinner. His white hair sticking out from under his fur hat, frost and icicles and angry breath dripping from his black moustache. His blue eyes not just mad, but livid.

“You cannot stop me,
madame,
” he’d said.

“I have no desire to stop you, Monsieur Renaud,” she’d said in a voice that she hoped sounded reasonable. Friendly even.

But they both knew she was lying. She wanted to stop him almost as badly as he wanted in.

When all the interviews had been completed Gamache returned to the office. There he found them sitting over a pot of tea.

“Welcome to our little lifeboat,” said Elizabeth, getting to her feet and inviting him to join Winnie, Porter and herself. “And this is our fuel.” She indicated the teapot and smiled.

Henri rushed over to greet him.

“I hope he wasn’t too much trouble.” Gamache patted Henri’s flank and taking a seat he accepted a cup of strong tea.

“Never,” said Winnie. “What happens next?”

“In the investigation? They’ll get the coroner’s report and start looking into Augustin Renaud’s movements, friends, family. Who’d want him dead.”

They sat together around the table. Not exactly a huddled mass, but reminiscent of it.

“You said Monsieur Renaud asked to speak to the board,” Gamache turned to Elizabeth.

“You told them that?” Porter asked, his voice more clipped than usual. “Now you’ve done it.”

“She had no choice,” said Gamache. “You all should have told us. You must have known it was important.” He looked at them sternly. “You refused to see him, but would you have listened to him eventually?”

He spoke now to Porter Wilson but noticed everyone looked at Elizabeth, who remained silent.

“Eventually, maybe. But there was no advantage for us, and a whole lot of—” Porter searched for a word. “Inconvenience.”

“Monsieur Renaud could be very persuasive,” said Gamache, remembering the vitriolic campaigns the amateur archeologist had waged against anyone who denied him permission to dig.

“True,” admitted Porter. He seemed tired now, as the full import of what had happened weighed more and more heavily. As horrible as it would have been to have Augustin Renaud dig for Champlain beneath their Lit and His Society, the only thing worse was what had happened.

“May I see your minutes for the meeting?”

“I haven’t done them up yet,” said Elizabeth.

“Your notebook will do.”

He waited. Eventually she handed him her notebook and putting on
his half-moon reading glasses he scanned the minutes, noting who was there for the meeting.

“I see Tom Hancock and Ken Haslam were there, but left early. Were they there when Augustin Renaud showed up?”

“Yes,” said Porter. “They left shortly after that. We were all there.”

Gamache continued to scan the minutes then over his glasses he looked at Elizabeth.

“There’s no mention of Monsieur Renaud’s visit.”

Elizabeth MacWhirter stared back. It seemed clear that when she’d asked for his help she hadn’t expected him to ask them quite so many questions, and uncomfortable ones at that.

“I decided not to mention it. He didn’t speak to us, after all. Nothing happened.”

“A great deal happened,
madame
,” said Gamache. But he’d also noticed that she’d said “I,” not “we.” Was she letting them off the hook? Taking the burden of responsibility herself? Or was it really a unilateral decision?

They might be in a lifeboat, but Gamache now had a clear idea who was captain.

It was early afternoon and Jean-Guy Beauvoir realized he’d already made a mistake. Not a big one, more an annoyance.

He had to return to Montreal and interview Olivier Brulé. He should have done that first, before coming down to Three Pines. Instead, he’d spent the last hour quietly in the bistro. Everyone had left, but not before making sure he was in the best chair, the big, worn, leather armchair beside the fireplace. He dipped an orange biscotti into his
café au lait
and looking through the frosty window he could see the snow, falling gently but steadily. Billy Williams had been by once with the plow, but the snow had already filled in behind him.

Beauvoir dropped his gaze to the dossier in his hand and continued reading, snug and warm inside. Half an hour later he glanced at the mariner’s clock on the mantelpiece. One twenty.

Time to go.

But not to Montreal. Not in this weather.

Returning to his room in the B and B, Beauvoir changed into his silk long underwear then layered his clothing strategically, putting on his snowsuit last. He rarely wore it, since he preferred being runway-ready and this suit made him look like the robot from
Lost in Space.
Indeed, in the winter, Québec looked like the staging area for an alien invasion.

Fortunately the chances of running into the editor of
Vogue Hommes
in the woods was pretty small.

He walked up the hill, hearing his thighs zinging together and barely able to put his arms flat to his sides. Now he felt a bit like a zombie, clump, clump, clumping up the hill to the inn and spa.

“Oui?”

Carole Gilbert answered the door and looked at the snow-covered zombie. But the older woman showed absolutely no fright, not even surprise. Gracious as ever she took two steps back and let the alien into the inn, run by her son and daughter-in-law.

“May I help you?”

Beauvoir unwrapped himself, now feeling like The Mummy. He was an entire B-grade film festival. Finally he removed his hat and Carole Gilbert smiled warmly.

“It’s Inspector Beauvoir,
non
?”

“Oui, madame, comment allez-vous?”

“I’m well, thank you. Have you come to stay? I didn’t see your name on the register.”

She looked behind her into the large, open entrance hall, with its black and white tile floor, gleaming wood desk and fresh flowers, even in the middle of winter. It was inviting and for a moment Beauvoir wished he had booked in. But then he remembered the prices, and remembered why he was there.

Not for massages and gourmet meals, but to find out whether Olivier had actually killed the Hermit.

Why did Olivier move the body?

And the very spot he was standing was where Olivier had dumped the Hermit. Olivier had admitted as much. He’d hauled the dead man through the woods that Labor Day weekend, in the middle of the night. Finding the door unlocked he simply dropped the sad bundle here. Right here.

Beauvoir looked down. He was melting, like the Wicked Witch of the West, his snow-covered boots puddling on the tile floor. But Carole Gilbert didn’t seem to care. She was more concerned for his comfort.

“No, I’m staying at the B and B,” he said.

“Of course.” He searched her face for any sign of professional jealousy, but saw none. And why would he? It seemed inconceivable the owners of this magnificent inn and spa would be jealous of any establishment, especially Gabri’s somewhat weary B and B.

“And what brings you back to us?” she asked, her voice light, conversational. “Is the Chief Inspector with you?”

“No, I’m on vacation. Leave, actually.”

“Of course, I’m sorry.” And she looked it, her face suddenly concerned. “How stupid of me. How are you?”

“I’m well. Better.”

“And Monsieur Gamache?”

“Better also.” He was, it must be admitted, a little tired of answering these kind questions.

“I’m so glad to hear it.” She motioned him into the inn but he held his ground. He was in a hurry and it was his temperament to show it. He consciously tried to slow himself down. He was supposed to be there for a vacation, after all.

“How can I help you?” she asked. “I don’t suppose you’ve come for the hot mud treatment? The Tai Chi class perhaps?”

He noticed her bemused look. Laughing at him? He thought not. More likely poking gentle fun at herself and the services of the spa. Her son Marc and his wife Dominique had bought the run-down place a year or so ago and turned it into this magnificent inn and spa. And had invited his mother, Carole Gilbert, to move from Quebec City to Three Pines, to help them run it.

“I can see how you might think so, since I’ve worn my Tai Chi outfit.” He opened his arms so she could see the full splendor of his ski suit. She laughed. “I’ve actually come to ask a favor. May I borrow one of your snowmobiles? I understand you have some for your guests.”

“That’s true, we do. I’ll get Roar Parra to help you.”

“
Merci.
I thought I’d go into the woods, to the cabin.”

He watched her as he spoke, hoping for a reaction, and got one. The gracious woman became glacial. Interesting how a moment before she’d seemed calm, content, relaxed. And now, while hardly anything had physically changed she suddenly seemed to be made of ice. A chill radiated from her.

“Is that so? Why?”

“Just to see it again. Something to do.”

She examined him closely, her eyes reptilian. Then the mask descended and she once again became the
gentille grande dame
of the manor house.

“In this weather?” She glanced outside to the falling snow.

“If snow kept me from doing things I’d get nothing done in winter,” he said.

“That’s true,” she admitted. Reluctantly? he wondered. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard, but my husband is living there now.”

“Is that so?” He hadn’t heard. But he did hear her say “husband,” not “former husband.” They’d been separated for years, until Vincent Gilbert had suddenly shown up, uninvited, at the inn and spa at almost exactly the same time the Hermit’s body had appeared.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a mud wrap?” she asked. “It’s quite similar to an hour with Vincent, I find.”

He laughed. “
Non, madame
,
merci.
Will he mind if I drop in?”

“Vincent? I’m afraid I’ve given up trying to figure out how his mind works.” But she relented a little and smiled at the melting man. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted for the company. But you’d better hurry, before it gets too late.”